Eye of the Beholder
by Masked Rose
Summary: Erik has always blamed his tragic fate on society's intolerant and fearful attitute towards those who are different. But is he any better? This story is very old and is officially abandoned, however I've left it online for nostalgia.
1. Chapter 1

_Well, after my fairly successful attempts at humorous phanfic, I have finally decided to take on something a little more serious. I guess we'll see how it goes over. If you liked it, or even if you didn't, please stop a moment to review it. And by that, I mean feel free to express pleasure, criticism, disgust, the opinion that I should stick to parodies, and any suggestions you many have. I don't have much experience in writing serious pieces and your input, positive or negative, would be greatly appreciated. Don't be afraid of insulting me. _

DISCLAIMER: I do not own all of the characters or material utilized in this story. Many of the characters and plot developments were originally created by Gaston Leroux. I have also taken a lot of inspiration from author Susan Kay, especially concerning the circumstances leading up to and immediately following Erik's releasing Christine, and have kept the name of Nadir for the Persian, as well as his history with Erik. However, these are not necessarily meant to be her characters. Any discrepancy between my plot and hers or my plot and Leroux's is intentional. I write this with greatest respect for the original creators and owners of these characters and this is a completely non-profit endeavor. 

**EYE OF THE BEHOLDER**

**Chapter 1**

The noises coming from inside the bedchamber sounded horrible. The midwife was pelting Julie with commands, demanding water, then more towels, her full, throaty voice echoing around the large room, broken only by the strangled cries of the mother-to-be. When Raoul heard the clatter of china shattering on the floor, and Julie being severely berated, he cringed. Raoul had wanted to stay by Christine's side through the whole ordeal. He couldn't help but feel that he was letting her down in her moment of greatest need. However, when the midwife, who intimidated Raoul to some extent, noted that it would not be an easy birth, she had forced the men out of the room, for dignity's sake. Now Raoul stood with Gerard, his manservant, waiting impatiently in the hallway, listening to the sounds of agony in the next room, and fervently thanking God that he was not a woman. Gerard, whose wife had already given birth to five sons, and who was quite used to the ordeal, was counting the number of supports that held up the banister along the staircase. He stifled a yawn, for the sake of his master's nerves. Raoul meanwhile felt his palms sweat. He said a silent prayer for Christine, the fourth in the last ten minutes. His only fear was that Christine might die giving birth. He was not worried about the child at all. Indeed, he quite hoped that the child _would_ die. That would make his upcoming task much less difficult. 

When the midwife's encouragements implied that the baby was finally being brought into the world, Raoul turned to Gerard and instructed with all the sincerity he could muster, "Run and fetch the priest." 

"Aww, Monsieur." Gerard smiled patronizingly, "She isn't going to die. My wife's had five a' them, and there isn't a one that's died yet. And my wife was making a lot more noise than Madame!" 

"I have a bad feeling about it, Gerard. I don't think there's much hope. You know how weak Christine is. I'd feel better if the priest were present…just in case. And send Doctor Roche up while you're at it." 

Gerard shrugged and obeyed, rather pleased to have something to do, all the stereotypes he'd ever heard about new fathers running through his head as he left. Raoul watched him, followed quietly to make sure he'd gone out the door, before returning to his post in the hall. 

Christine began to shriek and Raoul distinctly heard his name among the incomprehensible ejaculations. His protective instincts flared again, but he managed to keep still until he heard the baby's first scream. Doctor Roche appeared at the top of the stairs even as the midwife opened the door and showed the hollering child, wrapped hastily in a blanket, to the man she supposed was it's father. Raoul stepped forward and reached out for the child. 

"I normally give it to the mother first, Monsieur. With all due respect, I assume you don't know how to hold a child properly." 

"Just give it here." Raoul said sharply, and took the baby awkwardly from the plump woman's arms. If possible, the child shrieked louder. 

"Certainly has lungs." The midwife commented. 

Raoul did not answer. "How is my wife?" he asked quickly. 

"Fine. The worst is past. I thought she might suffer some side affects, but she seems to be all right now. Once the afterbirth is finished, everything should be all right." 

"Good. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to be alone with my son." 

"But, Monsieur..." the midwife looked appalled. She had seen proud fathers before, eager and nervous fathers, but never had anyone attempted to simply take over immediately after the birth, especially not a young man who looked as though he'd never witnessed a birth before, and who was holding the baby like it was a large chunk of ice. 

"I'm not paying you to stand around gawking at me. see to my wife!" Raoul commanded and the woman slowly backed into the bedchamber with a look of serious doubt on her face. Raoul closed the door behind her. 

Roche took the child from the viscount's arms, crooking it firmly in his own. The screaming lessened and even paused for a breath. The doctor unfolded the blanket and examined the squirming, naked body. "It's a boy." He said unceremoniously. 

"I _know_ it's a boy! I can see that as well as you!" Raoul snapped testily, tired of having everyone treat him as an idiot. 

"Monsieur is certain?" he said in a calm, unaffected tone. For a moment Raoul could only stare at the doctor, until he realized that the man was not referring to the child's sex. Then he nodded. Roche continued, "I could kill it, which would erase certain technical problems and keep you from all suspicion." 

Raoul shook his head vehemently, "Ah, but _I_ am not the murderer." 

Roche puzzled over this odd declaration only a moment. He swiftly removed a tiny, blue bottle from the insides of his cloak and administered the contents to the baby through a small nipple. The child drank the contents greedily and, within moments, was fast asleep. Roche called his aide from the landing, handed the sleeping child over to the wiry, grim man- who looked as though he should be working for an undertaker, and not a supposed healer of the sick and bringer of life- and brought the bundle that the aide had been carrying to Raoul. He pulled back the uppermost fold, revealing the face of a child. A child with unseeing eyes and pale, unmoving lips. The face of a dead child. 

"Still born, last night, to a farmer." Roche explained as Raoul turned away in disgust. "His wife died as well. He was too aggrieved to bother about the child. He won't miss it." 

Raoul wasn't listening. He could hear Christine calling for him in the next room. When Raoul entered, the midwife came to take the child to it's mother. She was no idiot. When she saw the child in Roche's arms, she instantly knew that it was not the child she had just delivered. But before she could protest, she found a 500 Franc note being pressed into her hand and the voice of the viscount saying softly into her ear, "If you should feel the need to invent any ridiculous fictions about what happened to my son, I will be forced to publicly denounce you for the terrible liar that you are. Are we understood?" 

Raoul had correctly assessed the woman's principles. This was not the first time, by far, and she shoved the note into her bodice without a word. In the meantime, Doctor Roche was breaking the news of her son's death to the hysterical mother in the most calm way he could conceive of. 

When Gerard returned with the father from St Catherine's, the two men were greeted with the tragic tale of the still-birth. Raoul was comforting his stricken wife, trying to quiet her sobs as she insisted that she had heard the baby's scream. The midwife told her that it had been her imagination, confused and stressed by the birth, then she took her leave, glad to be rid of the whole affair. Raoul had the corpse buried as quickly as possible with no ceremony and greeted the well-wishers who came to comfort the family in the subsequent days with as many tears as he could conjure. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Due to Myao's **much appreciated** review I have decided to revise this chapter a bit. I didn't mean for Raoul to come out so cruel last time, and in my defense, I want to say that I don't support unnecessary bashing of Raoul so I'm eager to change any OOC actions on the character's parts or any hypocrisy on my own. As a note, I don't revise every time someone doesn't like something I wrote. But in this case, I agree with Myao and upon reflection feel something should be done. I think the Raoul I meant to express didn't come across right, because it wasn't supposed to seem as though Raoul would honestly kill a baby (I don't think he would--in the story he was putting on an act which he was unable to follow through on) or that his intentions in giving away the child were sadistic or criminal. However, I support my main storyline and I'll stick to the same basic idea. I don't think Raoul has much respect for Erik as a human being, he admits to hating him, and, unlike Kay, I think he would have had objections to raising Erik's child, no matter that Christine was the mother. I think he would have seen such a child as an unwanted reminder of a past better forgotten. But that's just my take on him._

**

Chapter 2

**

White flakes of ash had settled upon the layers of soot; the fire had long since burned out, but he didn't care. He had only started it out of boredom, to watch the flames dance out their short, meaningless life. As soon as the source of fuel has burned out, the fire sputters and dies. That was how he felt. That was how he had felt for the last eight months, resuming life out of habit, remembering to eat every now and then. That was how he felt when there was a knock at the door. 

"Go away, Nadir! I really don't care what you have to say." He said without thinking. It took some moments, half listening to the repeated violent blows to the door, before he realized two things. The first was that the person had not gone away. The second was that Nadir never came in by the front door. 

Erik leapt from his chair, for one instant filled with adrenaline - they had come for him; the mob had found him! Then he realized that it was really all the same to him. Let them come. This dying of love took much longer than he had reckoned on, and any means of death they thought up for him was bound to be less painful. It was at this point in his musings, that Erik realized there was a voice accompanying the sounds. Indeed, he recognized that voice! It was the little viscount who'd stolen away Christine. Erik had a good mind to kill the insolent twig right then for daring to return. He got so far as opening the door, when he was met with a sight so strange, the cunning insults he had planned fell from his lips. The viscount was standing in the cellars, awkwardly holding a naked, sleeping baby as far from himself as he could. 

"De Chagny, you never cease to amaze me. What in the name of heaven are you doing with that child?" 

Raoul had to recover from surprise and compose himself before he answered. "I'm getting rid of it," he said with what Erik felt to be a lot of bravado and very little conviction. 

"You certainly are." Erik mused agreeably, "But you'd be hard pressed to convince me that you rode the whole stretch to Paris, came all the way down here, and crossed the lake, just to kill a defenseless baby." 

"I never said I intended to kill it!" 

"Then what did you mean by 'getting rid of it'?" 

"I don't want it, but I thought you might." Raoul said vaguely, sounding as though he thought himself very cunning. 

"And if I don't?" 

"Then...I shall have to do something drastic." 

"Pity." Erik proceeded to go back into his house, having forgotten about his anger in his amusement at the viscount's antics and his shock at the revelation of the child's existence. Naturally, it had already occurred to him, what this baby was. He did not suppose that de Chagny would offer another man his is own son, and he doubted that de Chagny would pick random babies up off the road to bother his arch-enemy with. There was only one child in the world that the otherwise gentle and compassionate young man would want to be rid of, and that having occurred to him, there was nothing Erik wanted to do so much as sit down and attempt to recover from what was likely the greatest, most overwhelming shock he had ever experienced. He was convinced Raoul would not harm the child. Raoul was not the type; he lacked the required viciousness and insensitivity. And momentarily satisfied with the child's safety, Erik found himself filled with a strong desire to deny Raoul the satisfaction of seeing his distress and the irresistible temptation to tease him by pretending apathy. 

Raoul's confidence was shaken at Erik's seeming disinterest. "This isn't just any baby..." he stated, likely trying to use suspense to build to a climax. It made Erik want to laugh, but he was too shaken. 

"Really?" he said with mock surprise, glancing over his shoulder and trying to keep his voice steady, "I thought perhaps you were trying to do the orphanages a favor. Or maybe you were coming here to burden me with my more or less illegitimate son--as I highly doubt much of society would accept my marriage to Christine Daaé as legal--and to offer to save his hide on the condition that I follow some terms you have thrown together which are more than likely outrageous and not worth the potential good that could come out of the fact that I've added another whining brat to the already overpopulated world." Having said that in one breath, and having gained the satisfaction of de Chagny's mouth dropping open, making him look ten times dafter than usual, Erik turned once again towards the door. 

"Well...Wait!" 

"Yes?" 

"You don't even care? I mean, it's your son!" Raoul exclaimed, throwing all subtlety to the wind. He seemed appalled at Erik's cool attitude regarding such a serious issue, and his surprise indicated that he had counted on Erik's cooperation. 

"Actually," Erik responded, "I'm surprised and honoured that you apparently think I have a heart. I was under the impression you thought me a soulless monster. However, the worth of your offer is sadly reduced by the fact that the child is dead." 

"What?" Raoul frantically gave the baby a once-over, confirming Erik's belief that the viscount would never have harmed the poor thing to begin with. "No it's not!" 

"Show me a newborn, other than a dead one, Monsieur, which does not cry when held naked by an incompetent in a freezing cellar." 

"Oh, that. Well, we gave it laudanum." 

"Oh, that was clever. I assume that by 'we' you mean that you did not undertake this task alone. I presume that also means that whoever helped you was competent enough not to give him an overdose." 

"Ummm...yes," muttered Raoul, feeling somewhat idiotic for having betrayed that he had an accomplice. 

"Good. However, that does not make up for the fact that the baby is likely to catch its death of cold down here, vulnerable and exposed as it is. I hope you have not been standing here long?" Erik added this last mostly to provoke a reaction from Raoul. He had almost forgotten his alleged role in the whole business. 

"N...No!" Raoul moved the child away from the lake and brought it closer to his body for warmth and protection, attempting to hold it with more respect. The only reason Erik did not laugh aloud at the viscount's awkwardness in holding the child, was that Erik, himself, had never held a child either. 

"Now, that's much better," Erik said with approval, turning his back once again on the completely flustered and defeated boy on his doorstep. 

"Now see here, Erik!" Raoul gave one last attempt at authority. Nothing was going how he imagined it would and he was fed up with Erik's games and at his wit's end, "I won't raise this child! Don't think that I will! Christine and I are trying to create our own life together, far away from the shadows of the past. I want nothing to do with your offspring and I certainly won't give him my name! But I am offering him to you, provided you agree never to bother my wife or myself again. And don't attempt to use that child to persuade Christine to return to you. She is quite aware of its existence and we have agreed that the best course of action is to pronounce it dead. She wants no more to do with it than I, and I expect that the incident shall never be mentioned again. If you won't take him in..." Raoul paused to consider. "I'll have to give him to one of my servants to raise." 

The thought of his son catering to the whim of de Chagny and his heirs was too much for Erik; his carefully constructed facade of apathy and disdain crumbled as anger coursed through his veins, cumulating to a painful throb in his chest. Fists clenched, he whirled around and stalked towards Raoul, covering the distance between them in a few long strides. Without waiting for a reaction, Erik snatched the baby from Raoul's arms and clutched it protectively to his chest. He had a good mind to shove the insolent viscount into the lake; it would serve him right for having the audacity to come down to the cellars and confront the former opera ghost is such a fashion! Erik returned to his doorway, trembling with rage, his attempts to get a hold on himself only succeeding with the realization that he was unknowingly crushing the child in his arms. 

"His place will never be one of servitude, especially not to a family such as yours," Erik snapped. "Now you'd best be off before I have to dispose of you myself." 

"Promise me that you'll never come near Christine or my family again," Raoul insisted. 

Erik's expression was stony, but when he spoke, his voice was tired and subdued, "Listen, I want nothing to do with you either. I haven't made any attempts to disrupt your life with Christine thus far, and I don't see why I should begin now. Rather it is you who have violently disrupted _my_ life. Now, I should greatly appreciate it if you would leave." 

Raoul couldn't find any appropriate words for the situation, so he merely nodded and backed away. Then, quite suddenly, he turned and hurried off without another word. He seemed quite glad to be rid of the whole affair. For Erik, on the other hand, things were just getting started. He stared with disbelief at the child sleeping peacefully in his arms as the reality of all that had just happened slowly sunk in. A son! Erik felt his knees grow weak and he nearly didn't make it back to the divan before he collapsed. Oh, the baby was all right now, drugged and harmless as it was, but babies change. They grow into children, and eventually into adults! Erik had never been responsible for another person's life before--not in this sense anyway. 

Guilt and fear began to bear down on him at the terrible prospect of this child, this thing for which he must care. God! He wanted nothing more than to die in peace, but if he died, the child would have no one to look after it. He couldn't abandon it, but he couldn't very well raise it either. Erik was caught between mirth and terror when he tried to imagine himself as a father, and the more he thought about it, the more terrible and threatening the child became. 

Placing the child roughly on the cushions of the divan, Erik sprang up and rushed to the mantel, leaning his pounding head against its cool stonework in an attempt to calm himself and reestablish organized thought in his mind. As he did, something caught his eye; it was the portrait of his mother he kept in a miniature picture frame--the only likeness he had of her in the entire house. It was a faded, wrinkled photograph, taken sometime before she had become hard and worn and mirthless, back when she could remember how to smile, back before Erik was born. 

Erik sighed and returned to the divan, his shoulders slumped in weary defeat. He had a duty to care for the child. To abandon it would mean becoming as heartless as his own mother, a nadir he'd hoped never to reach. No, he'd have to do something with the child certainly, and he didn't really fancy having anyone else handle something he'd created; he was naturally possessive and jealous, particularly of his own works of art, among which he supposed he could count this child. But under no circumstances could he do it alone! 

_If anyone still feels dissatisfied with this or any other chapters, please email me and I'll consider your comments/ideas/criticisms._


	3. Chapter 3

**

Chapter 3

**

A deafening series of blows to the heavy wooden front door brought Darius out of a light doze. He started up in his cot and drowsily called out an acknowledgement to the visitor. The violent knocking did not subside. Grumbling, Darius lit several lamps to prevent himself from tripping over anything, made his way down the steps and undid the latch of the trembling door. With an impatient grunt he roughly pulled the door open and watched with satisfaction as Erik jerked back in surprise, barely maintaining his balance. 

Of course it was Erik; his violent, obstinate style had been immediately recognizable. And who else ever came to call on the daroga anyway? Especially at this time of night. Darius inclined his head slightly towards the other man and inquired what his desire might be. 

"I must speak to the daroga immediately," Erik responded softly, but with a hint of tension in his voice. 

"He is asleep," Darius retorted. "Can it wait until mor..." 

"It cannot wait," Erik interjected. "You will take me to him now, or I will take myself." 

Darius eyed Erik suspiciously, and as he did, noticed for the first time that there was something strange in Erik's appearance. He had his cape wrapped loosely around his arms, as though trying to hide a package of some sort. Darius sincerely hoped this was not another of Erik's insane plots. They had not seen much of each other since the whole Christine Daaé affair some months ago, other than sporadic attempts by the daroga to visit Erik--attempts which had become increasingly rare--and Darius had begun to entertain the hope that Erik had truly died of sorrow as he had said he was going to, or at the least had given up on his relationship with the daroga. It had, after all, been rather strained by the fact that the daroga had betrayed him in a sense to Raoul de Chagny. And it had never been an exceedingly stable relationship to begin with. 

"Right this way," Darius sighed, feeling it futile to argue with a man so infamous for his ability to get his own way. He led Erik up the stairs, through the tiny sitting room, and over to the door to the daroga's even tinier bedchamber. Reaching out a hand, he knocked tentatively. 

Erik chose not to be so compassionate. "Nadir, it's me," he called loudly. "I must speak with you at once. Come to the door." 

After a moment or two of tense silence, the door opened and the daroga appeared, blinking in the dim light of the lamps. "Well..." 

"Nadir..." Erik started uncertainly. For a moment he did nothing but stare at his old friend, his eyes wandering over the sleek black hair, now full of white patches, the cracked brown skin, and the deep bags underneath the piercing black eyes. For a moment he forgot why he had come. Suddenly a flash of panic crossed Erik's face, and he threw all subtlety to the wind. Allowing his cloak to fall back from his arms, he revealed what appeared to be a baby wrapped in a white silk pillowcase. "I don't know what to do," he stated simply and honestly, "They tell me it's mine, but I've never raised a child before. De Chagny won't have anything to do with it, of course, so what am I to do? You had a son once..." 

His implication was clear, but Nadir slowly shook his head, bewildered, "Erik...I had nurses and maids for that sort of thing." 

"But you had a child. You must know something!" 

"Even you know something. It will need to be clothed, fed, changed..." 

"But where shall I get milk from? And I've no idea...I...I've never even held a child this young until now." 

"And you're doing a very poor job of it, too," Darius noted dryly before the daroga could stop him, but Erik was too distracted to respond. 

"Now, Erik, calm down. Let me see the child." Nadir took the sleeping bundle from Erik's trembling arms and settled it firmly in his own. "Darius, get Erik a brandy, then go out and see if you can find milk anywhere, and a bottle to feed the child with." 

"Right now?" 

"The child will undoubtedly be hungry when it awakens. The sun is beginning to come up; some shops will be opening." 

Darius grudgingly poured brandy into a glass and, with narrowed eyes, shoved it at Erik, who drank the liquor in one gulp. Then he put on his coat and hat and went down the steps to the door. 

"Now, how did you...come into possession of the child?" Nadir motioned for Erik to take a seat in the sitting room. 

"Raoul brought it by a few hours ago...Funny time to be running errands, really, in the middle of the night like that." Erik helped himself to another brandy and sat down in the nearest chair. 

"Yes," mused Nadir quietly. "I assume then that this child is Christine's..." 

"Of course it is," Erik snapped, "Who the hell else's would it be?" 

"I only meant that you've no proof really of this baby's parentage." 

Erik pondered this a moment. "I suppose I hadn't thought about that. I was so overwhelmed...then again, I seriously doubt de Chagny is diabolical enough to hatch any truly cunning plots. I assume he wouldn't sacrifice anyone else's baby by giving it to me. Nothing else makes sense." 

A while passed when neither man said anything. Erik rested with his head in his hands while Nadir gently looked the child over. When Darius eventually returned, the baby was beginning to regain consciousness; it squirmed weakly and kicked its tiny legs. Darius set his findings on the small russet end table next to Nadir's armchair. He'd brought milk, a feeding bottle, some blankets, and a newspaper. The newspaper he tossed to Erik, who made no move to catch it, choosing to watch indifferently as it struck his arm and fell to the floor with a dull thud. 

"Read it," Darius said simply. Then he retired wordlessly to his room to get some rest. 

"Thank you, Darius," Nadir called after him as Erik retrieved the newspaper from its landing place at his feet. Nadir cushioned the now alert baby between a pillow and the chair's armrest and rose to heat the milk. "What does it say?" 

Erik thumbed through the paper until he found the article which Darius must have meant for him to read. It was entitled, "De Chagny Heir Born Dead." He scanned the article. "It reports on Christine de Chagny's difficult childbirth and the tragic stillbirth of the de Chagny heir." He paused. "Then it must be Christine's child. And it must be mine. The time is about right, although slightly early. The birth must have been somewhat premature. But assuming the de Chagny's waited to consummate their marriage until after the actual event, it cannot be his. There were too many months of preparation for the wedding." 

Nadir filled the bottle with milk and returned to his seat. He unwrapped the child from its makeshift attire and wrapped it again tightly in the blankets Darius had brought. Erik remained staring into space, the newspaper limply held in one hand. "He really is a fool, you know," he commented vaguely, "De Chagny, I mean. Suppose I hadn't been home. Or suppose I was dead." 

"Then he would have killed the child, I suppose, or given it up for adoption." 

"Adoption. There's an idea!" Erik straightened up in his chair. "I can give the child away. I don't suppose I'd make a very good father; I'd probably ruin it. And I could never afford it a normal life. Who would want to be raised by a monster like me? I live underground, for Christ's sake! Better for it that it's raised by a normal family, a family who can give it love and care." 

"If that's what you really want," Nadir picked up the baby who began to fuss and kick. "Here." He extended the bottle of milk to Erik. 

"What's this for?" 

"You're going to feed the child." 

"Me?" 

"He is your son, Erik. Don't forget. This is a human being you've created. A _human being_. And you have a duty to care for him." 

At these words, Erik's breath began to come raggedly, and quite suddenly, he found himself doubled over and sobbing into his hands, tears spilling out of his eyes and running lightly down the front of his mask. He hated to admit it, but it felt good to cry, to release all the pent up fear and shock that had plagued him since de Chagny's appearance at his front door. Good God, Nadir was right. This was his child. It was the only chance he'd ever get at having a son, and very likely his last chance at survival. The child was something to live for, someone to love and to sacrifice for. Nothing had made him feel this way since Christine had left, but now, he looked at the child, and he saw Christine in him. This was Christine's son as well. He was the result--the proof--of their love. The child began to scream. 

"You're right," Erik gasped. He held out his hands awkwardly for the boy. Once settled in the crook of Erik's arm, with the bottle's nipple at his mouth, the child grew still, utterly absorbed in the task of feeding itself. "I suppose he shall need a name, as well," Erik sighed. 

"That is the usual practice." 

"Well then..." Erik paused. He had never had much luck with names, his own name having come to him by chance. He sometimes considered it a mere title to which he responded rather than a name. "I'll call him...Julian." 

"Julian?" Nadir glanced up at his friend. 

"Yes. That's a nice, normal name, isn't it? I intend to give him a normal life if its the last thing I do. I am only too familiar with the life of an outsider to want him to suffer through that." 

Nadir nodded his consent, then bowed his head stiffly in the child's direction. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Julian," he said. 

_Well, thanks to the positive response, I've written a little more. As always, all comments/words of praise/criticisms are encouraged. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed it thus far. I hope I live up to your expectations. If I don't, let me know_


	4. Chapter 4

_Aha! I am not dead, as you must have thought, but have returned from the ashes to, well...ok, so this is not a glorious comeback, but I felt sort of bad, abandoning this story the way I did. I am just recovering from a 6 month long obsession with anime, particularly with this one monster (no, really!) named Xelloss...but enough about him. Erik has always been the beloved, if tragically neglected, king of my heart, and now I return to him. As for the story...um, well more about that at the end of this chapter. For now, read on and (hopefully) enjo_y. 

**Chapter 4**

A bony, white hand shot through the air, positioning itself underneath a tumbling glass just in time to prevent the finely-crafted crystal from shattering on the hard floor below. It was not, however, in time to prevent the pale red liquid in the glass from splashing over the rim and staining the edge of the rug. Erik sighed deeply, knowing it was his own fault for having left the wine glass relatively unattended in addition to his idiocy in believing the child had actually been asleep. Julian was not over fond of sleeping, to put it mildly.

Trying to curb his initial annoyance, Erik stood and quickly placed the glass out of Julian's reach. This was surprisingly easy; the child was not prone to climbing or exploring, a fact which had allowed Erik to believe that he need not worry himself too much about fragile objects situated above Julian's head. This time, the toddler, who only moments before had been curled up on the Persian rugs in an excellent imitation of sleeping, had proven Erik wrong.

"Well, Julian, I hope you're pleased with yourself," Erik said harshly, but inwardly he was glad the boy had shown some interest in developing his limited skills. Apparently Julian had been attempting to use the end table to pull himself into a standing position. The fact that Julian, now nearly twenty-five months old, still could not walk worried Erik to some extent. To be honest, he was not sure when children normally began this process, but he was certain that Julian should have begun by now.

Instead, Julian was sitting on the floor where he had landed after losing his balance, looking bewildered. He was a short child, slightly pudgy, with a soft, beautiful face framed by long black ringlets. Other than the shortness, and the pudginess, his features rather resembled Erik's. For, although an untrained eye would be hard pressed to see any similarities between the misshapen father and his angelic son, the structure of Julian's face was already beginning to develop like Erik's, from the long, thin mouth to the narrow, well-defined nose. Truly, the boy was probably an indication of what Erik might have looked like, had he not been born deformed. Except for his eyes. Julian's soft, watery blue-gray eyes so reminded Erik of Christine's, that Erik periodically felt a tear run down his cheek when he looked at them.

Now those eyes were themselves beginning to tear up and the little mouth drew itself into a pout. "Oh, don't cry, Julian," Erik said quickly, regretting his harsh tone. Despite his famous temper, he found it difficult to stay angry at his son, who had truly become the center of his existence. "Erik will make everything better." After all that had happened, Erik still found it difficult to grasp the concept that he had fathered this child. In retrospect, the one night he had spent with Christine seemed like an illusion, and the fifty years he had spent renouncing any dreams of parenthood had taken their toll on his ability to accept such an idea. He thought of himself more as the child's guardian, and thus, usually referred to himself by his own name.

Erik grasped Julian firmly underneath the arms and lifted him up. "Uhh muhhm," said Julian, which could have meant anything. Erik settled the boy on the divan with a sharp "stay," and turned to the futile task of trying to remove the red stain from the rug. Julian did not know how to get down from the divan, so he typically stayed put. He contentedly watched Erik scrub at the unsightly spot and babbled away to himself in his own, incomprehensible language. This was the scene that Nadir was met with when he let himself into the house on the lake.

"Spilled something else, has he," he asked with amusement. Ignoring Erik's glare, he made his way over to the divan and sat down next to Julian. "And how are you today, little one?"

"Gah," replied Julian and clapped his hands. Then he lost interest in the visitor and began crawling to the opposite end of the divan. Erik stood wearily and made his way over to join Nadir and his son. Almost instinctively, he stretched out his arms and caught the boy as he misplaced a hand and began to tumble off the edge.

"Christ," Erik muttered, "Every other minute he falls off of something, or trips, or loses his balance. One would think he had no coordination whatsoever. "

"Oh, that's not true," Nadir replied carefully, "but now that you bring it up, I did want to talk to you about something." 

Erik's instinctive distrust flared up, and he only barely managed to keep his voice unaffected, "About what?"  
  
"Well, about Julian and his...development...or lack thereof..." 

Nadir turned his head to find himself being stared down by a pair of menacing golden eyes. The implied violence of Erik's glare was only made more disturbing by the dead calm of his masked face. "What about it?" he asked in a voice which, although completely devoid of emotion, managed to come out threatening.

Fortunately, Nadir had lived with Erik long enough to know that his violence and ill-tempered disposition were, for the most part, guards he put up to protect himself from the icy grip of fear and pain. Nadir had learned to ignore the occasional flashes of hostility. And anyway, he was generally difficult to intimidate. Taking a deep breath, he presented Erik with his concerns.  


"Erik, as you may have noticed, Julian seems unable, or unwilling, to speak in a comprehensible language."

Erik broke eye contact with Nadir and let his gaze roam restlessly about the room. He pretended to be very interested in the ornate Viennese clock hanging on the opposite wall. "I don't know what you are talking about. I can understand him."

"Then you are alone in that particular skill," Nadir persisted. "Last month was his second birthday, but he has yet to take his first step. When he attempts to feed himself, he makes a terrible mess."

"All children are messy."

"Not as messy as Julian." Nadir sighed, "Erik, were you uncoordinated and dependent when you were young?"

"No," Erik replied, "Quite the opposite." Erik's extraordinary memory, combined with the innumerable lamentations his mother had made about his behaviour as a child, had enabled Erik to construct in his mind a fairly accurate picture of his childhood. As far as he could tell, he had been meticulous and unusually driven even then. Erik paused to consider the implications of Nadir's query. "Are you trying to say that there is something _wrong_ with Julian?"

"No! No." Nadir glanced nervously at the boy, who, blissfully unaware of his role in the current discussion, was playing with the ornate tassels on one of the divan's pillows. "I'm trying to suggest that there is something... well... wrong with your method of parenting."  
  
A flash of some indiscernible emotion crossed Erik's eyes. "Oh," he said simply, and for a moment neither man could find any words to adequately express their thoughts. The only sound was the muffled babbling of Julian as he munched on the pillow's embroidered corner. Finally Erik spoke again, haltingly, "Do you...perhaps I...well, of course. I always figured I could never..."

"Erik," Nadir interrupted gently, "Is it possible you spoil him too much?" Erik looked up gratefully. Spoiling didn't sound like such a crime. "I certainly do not mean to suggest that your own upbringing was anything like ideal," the other man continued, "but perhaps your independence surfaced at an early age precisely because it was forced to. You were spoiled too little, and so you learned to take matters into your own hands. Perhaps Julian is spoiled too much, and never needing to accomplish anything on his own, has never seen fit to develop any necessary skills."

Erik bit his lower lip thoughtfully as he watched Julian. Was it possible he was too lenient with the child? But he had been so eager, so desperate, to ensure that Julian was given proper attention and love, how could he possibly have spoiled him any less? "I suppose you may be right," he conceded. 

"You _do _spend nearly every waking moment attending to his needs, after all," Nadir pointed out.

"Well, what else am I to do? I have nothing left to live for. There is nothing else in my life worth wasting my attention on. God, Julian _is_ my life..." It was true Erik had found precious little else to do with his time. And now that he no longer haunted the opera, time was something he had no small amount of. He had neither the heart nor the will to find work, partly because he wanted to remain at home for Julian's sake, and partly because he simply did not think he could have applied himself enough to anything. He had raised enough money thus far to feed and clothe the boy by selling various things that he owned, or even creating things for the purpose of selling them--paintings or sculptures or the like; he had no small talent as an artist.  
  
"All I am suggesting is that you back off a little," Nadir assured the distraught father. "You needn't ignore him, certainly, but allow him to develop on his own. You have the tendency to be...overprotective."

"Who, me?" Erik said, and Nadir was relived to hear the mirth in his friend's voice. At least he could see the humor in the situation. Both men could only too readily remember the times, not so long ago, when Julian's various sicknesses had proven much more trying on Erik's health than on the boy's. And it had been exceedingly difficult to convince Erik to wander more than a foot or two from the poor child if he was sitting up on his own, for fear that he would fall over and injure himself. Of course, time and experience lessened these fears, but not before Nadir and Darius had had more than a few hearty laughs over Erik's attempts at parenting.

"Very well, very well," Erik continued with a chuckle, "I shall do my best to let Julian experience life on his own terms." He could, however, not help reaching out distractedly with one hand to tug the pillow Julian was using as a teething mat out of his reach. "Starting now," he added sheepishly.

Julian, deprived of his entertainment, set his sights on a newcomer to the scene; this was Harireh, a black and gray striped cat currently occupied in stretching itself out over the back of the divan. Erik had rescued Harireh years ago, after finding her ill and dying in the opera's cellars, where she had been instated as an aide for the rat-catcher. That man had abandoned her when she became too slow and rheumatic to be of any further use, and Erik had nursed her back to health. Originally, he had then forced her upon the Daroga, as a means of giving his Persian friend something with which to occupy his time since, as Erik jokingly remarked, he seemed to prefer concerning himself with others' affairs over his own. Eventually, Julian had developed such an attachment to it--for Julian had spent most of his first year and half in the Daroga's apartments--that Erik had been forced to take the cat back with him to the cellars or suffer his son's childish wrath.

Julian had seen his father stroke the cat's fur many times, and he delighted in mimicking this. As the cat slunk into his immediate vicinity, Julian reached out began to tap it's head lightly. "Here," Erik murmured, lifting the feline up and placing her in Julian's lap. "Be gentle."

Fascinated, as always, by the plump, but graceful creature, Julian very carefully stroked her soft fur. Erik couldn't help smiling a bit to himself. Perhaps the boy did take after him, after all. These thoughts were rudely interrupted, however, by a shrill screech from Harireh and a miserable wail from Julian. Erik looked back in time to see Harireh shoot out of Julian's arms and onto the armrest, bristling defensively. Pulling the screaming boy into his lap, Erik noted a long, red scratch across his face, a new acquisition. 

Nadir sighed as Erik worriedly fussed over Julian, muttering, "There she goes again. She's normally so well-behaved, so docile...why does he upset her?"

"Children do not always understand how to treat animals properly," Nadir suggested, ruefully noting that some adults, himself included, understood little better.

"Well, I did!" Erik was not comforted. Julian seemed to understand well enough. He was endlessly gentle with Harireh, and yet, every encounter with her seemed to end in tears. The same way everything he touched seemed to end up broken or knocked over. "I loved animals," he muttered under his breath, "and they have always loved me. I've never sent a cat--nor a dog, nor snake, nor ferret, nor anything--running away like that." 

"Well, we are talking about Julian, not you!" Nadir stood in exasperation. "If he needs to get scratched a few times to learn how to handle her properly, let it happen. You can't protect him from everything in the world, you know. Eventually, he will have to discover things for himself." Wearily, he collected his hat and cloak. He thought it would be better if Erik had some time to himself to think about things. "And don't forget," he added, as he turned to leave, "you mustn't expect him to be able to do everything right away. Not every child can be a genius, no matter who his father is. And Julian is not you."

With that, Nadir left the house on the lake. He could only hope that Erik would heed his advice.

_AN: So, I told you it wasn't exactly a glorious chapter, and now, after having just read two excellent stories by two excellent authors (Renewal of an Old Acquaintance and Bishops and Blueprints--go read them!), I feel even more worthless, but sit tight. Hopefully it will get better. My greatest fear about this story is that it's just too slow and wordy. To be honest, I've had this chapter mostly written for months, but I thought it was too boring to post. I've eventually decided that it__ works all right as a lead-in, so I posted it after all, from lack of better inspiration. If anyone has ideas on how to improve this chapter/story, please feel free to email me, or put them in a review. If you really want me to love you, tell me what was good and what was bad so that I can have a better idea of how to improve my style overall. Of course, if you liked it, that's great too! (This is assuming anyone is even still interested in this story after all this time)._

_* Harireh, according to my sources, means "female cat" in Farsi, or something like that. Farsi, of course, being the language spoken in Iran. Iran, of course, being the country that was once Persia. But, of course, you all already knew that._


	5. Chapter 5

_So, here I am again, after another good half-a-year's respite. It's funny, because every time I post a chapter for this story, I lose interest and decide to abandon it. And then some person somehow stumbles across it five months later, leaves me a review, and my muse returns. And besides, I didn't want to end the story where Chapter four leaves it. I at least want to make my point before I give up. ;) And though all the people who once read this story are possibly long gone, and have lost interest, here is my next offering._

**Chapter 5**

Julian Levoire slowly put his hand against the back of the chair to steady himself. Don't fall, don't fall, he told himself over and over. With even more caution, he leaned forward, sticking his head and upper body past the window frame and into the crisp morning air. He _would hang the windchime back on its perch, he __would. The memory of his father's words two days ago was far too fresh in his mind to be ignored. _

_"You've knocked it down, again? If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't want it up there!" _

_"Erik, I'm sorry! It was an accident." Julian called the man Erik, because that was how he always referred to himself. By the time Julian had learned that other children usually called the man who had fathered them "Papa," it was too late to break his habit. _

_"Of course it was," was the reply. The edge had left his voice, but the weariness was still there. "Just like they all are." How tired his papa looked, now, as so often before. Some bitterness returned. "Well, see that you don't let it fall again. I am not going to replace it for you forever, you know." _

Julian clenched his teeth and focused on the task at hand. He wouldn't disappoint Erik this time. He tried to turn his head to see the little hook where the chime hung. It was directly over the window, so that, when the pane was opened, the wind blew through and made is sound so prettily. Julian loved the sounds of the windchime. It was the most soothing thing he knew, next to Erik's voice. He loved to watch the little pipes strike each other, glancing off one another's shiny surfaces. They were each decorated with such lovely little animals. Erik had made it for him, and hung it in the window to bring them comfort on lonely days. 

But the wind did not blow every day. And sometimes Julian would sit and cry until Erik stood and touched the chimes with the tips of his long, white fingers. And then they would dance to life again and play their sweet music. And when Erik was out, on the roof, where he liked to draw, or out in the town running errands, Julian would sit on the floor and cry for hours because he wanted to hear the chimes. The neighbors used to come and pound on the door, telling him to stop the racket, and the old women and maids who had agreed to watch over him in his father's absence would scold and screech. Of course, the scolding partly had to do with the fact that Julian always managed to tangle up their sewing or spill his food all over the floor. Few of them ever returned to take care of him a second time. And Erik had sighed and told him that, if he continued to misbehave, Erik would be forced to stay home all the time. "And then who would do our shopping and buy you food and toys?" he had asked, and Julian was sad, because he knew that Erik could not take him into the town; every time he did, Julian always created some kind of disaster. Either he was knocking over fruit stands, or bumping into old ladies. Oh, he didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it. As it was, Erik could barely leave for half an hour, for fear of something happening to Julian, which made running errands extremely difficult. 

Then Julian had discovered that, if he made a pole out of things he found lying around, spending long hours tying the odds and ends together behind his nursemaids' backs, he could reach the chimes from where he sat, making them dance all by himself. But sometimes his pole got caught on the little strings that held the chimes together and brought the whole thing tumbling down onto the windowsill. And then the pretty chimes cracked and Erik had to fix them. 

Well, this time, Erik was sitting on the roof—it was a flat roof, with wide, even shingles—drawing his buildings, because there was not room in their tiny flat to spread out all of his plans and measuring tools, whereas the roof was ideal. And Julian had begged and begged to be allowed to stay in the apartment, as he was afraid of heights. He had promised to be good and not to get in any trouble. He had sworn he would hardly move a muscle of his body, and Erik seemed to like it when Julian showed initiative and responsibility, so he had agreed at last. And now, Julian would not disrupt his father's work just because he had been clumsy again. He would replace the chimes himself. He needed only to slip the little string over the hook, so the chimes could hang. Julian felt sure that, if he just showed a little more confidence in himself, he could accomplish all the things he currently found so challenging. He would grow up to be strong and graceful, like Erik, who never spilled juice while he was pouring it or fell down the stairs. He craned his neck further to see the little metal protrusion, only barely keeping his balance, and reached out a slow, shaking hand to reaffix the windchime. He was concentrating furiously, and his fingers clenched so tightly around the string, that his nails dug into his palms, and he could feel his hand sweating. Carefully, Julian extended his hand and slid the string over the hook. 

But the hook was suddenly not there. Or, it had moved, rather. It was not where he had been sure it was. And, without anything to halt the motion of his extended hand, Julian overcompensated, lost his balance, and tumbled into space. He only vaguely heard the sound of the chair tipping and crashing to the floor. Only vaguely felt the windowsill strike his back as he fell. The air rushed past him, and he heard himself scream. 

Like a hare, startled from its burrow, Erik shot off of the roof, unthinking, dropping lightly onto the windowsill beneath, where he skidded for a moment, before letting himself drop further. The roof was easily accessible from his bedroom window, for someone with a little climbing talent, and the drop was not far. The drop from the second-story window the ground was a bit more intimidating, but Erik was too frantic to care for his own safety. 

Of course, following the scream—all to easily recognizable as his son's—he was already too late. All he could do was watch as Julian tumbled ahead of him and landed—thank God!—in a laundry basket fortunately situated below the window. The less fortunate woman who had been sorting her laundry, screeched in surprise and fell away from the basket, landing unceremoniously on her backside on the gravel path. Erik dropped lithely to the ground moments after, frightening the woman still more, and lifted Julian out of the basket, clutching him to his chest protectively in one motion. 

"Oh, God," Erik moaned, the shaking of Julian's body matching the wild beating of his own heart. He sank slowly to the ground, leaning desperately against the side of the building for support. "Oh, God," was all he could say. 

The hapless washerwoman was not similarly afflicted. "Monsieur Levoire! I should have known. Who else would accompany children falling from the sky!" She had righted herself, and was haughtily dusting her clothes off with an offended air. "With all the trouble that boy causes daily, one would think you'd keep a better watch on him. Little devil, that one is." 

"I would thank you, Madame, not to liken my son to the devil!" Erik found his voice at last, after several minutes of labored breathing. These daily—near hourly—ordeals could not be having a good effect on his heart. Or his nerves for that matter. 

"Hmph," the woman sniffed, "If not the son, then perhaps the father…" She did not notice how Erik's hands clenched tightly into fists, nor how his eyes narrowed darkly. "Imagine raising a child so horribly. The poor mother must be rolling in her grave, if indeed she be dead." This same woman had made it blatantly clear, on her first meeting with Erik, that she found Julian's motherless condition to be highly questionable. 

Hauling himself to his feet, Julian still clutched in his arms, Erik drew himself to his full height. For once, he took pleasure in seeing the ill-disguised fear that lit her eyes as he did. "I would thank you still further to keep his mother out of this," he spat. Where Christine was concerned, Erik was not certain what he felt. If she had truly cast aside her own son, allegedly because Erik had sired him, well, that hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt like something gashing open your skin and then pouring lemon juice on the wound and jabbing sharp, little pebbles into the exposed flesh. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to hate her. What woman would not be ashamed of a son sired by him, after all. And anyway, she was his Christine, whatever she chose to do, and he would not have any dishonourable implications aimed at her person. 

The woman simply swallowed hard, collected her laundry basket, and hastened away from the scene. By this time, spectators had thrust their heads out of the windows and were gaping openly. Julian had his head buried against Erik's chest, and Erik desperately wished he, himself, had somewhere—someone—against which to lean, to hide. But there was no one, so he pretended not to see the curious stares that followed him back into the lodging house, pretended not to hear the whispered words exchanged. 

Once inside the relative safety of the house's walls, Erik immediately sought out Monsieur Dufour, the owner of the place, and the landlord. "Monsieur Dufour," he greeted crisply, on being ushered into the man's office. 

"Ah, Monsieur Levoire, what can I do for you?" 

Erik had chosen the name Levoire by tossing his throwing knife at a newspaper and choosing the name closest to where it landed. The paper had been open to the obituaries. The knife had left a nick in the surface of Nadir's dining table. "Monsieur, I must insist on being moved to the first floor. It is simply not safe for Julian." 

"I assume that racket just now was you and your boy, then?" Dufour looked up and gave Erik a weary smile. It was an expression adopted by him out of habit, and not true joviality. "Monsieur Levoire, we have been over this many times. The first floor is where my more…respectable tenants live." 

"I'll get you the money, whatever you ask." 

"It's not that Monsieur, it's just… The first floor houses all the important facilities and rooms. And my guests, they feel…uncomfortable in your presence." 

"I am barely out of my room," Erik protested, trying to remain civil. It would hardly do to insult his landlord. God, but it had been ages since Erik had been answerable to such a man, and he found the matter left him with a sour taste in his mouth. "I disturb no one where I can help it. I reside above them, as it is. Is that so different from residing in the adjoining chamber?" 

"You and I know there is no difference," Dufour continued patiently, "But people are superstitious. They are wary. If they feel it better when you restrict yourself to the upper floor, how can I deny them that? You are lucky I allow you to live here at all. If I am not mistaken, you were having considerable trouble finding lodgings when you came to me. And anyway, what about the roof you treasure so much? How would you reach it from the first floor?" 

"We practically live in the attic," Erik retorted. "And the roof is merely advantageous, not necessary. I hardly need it to live." 

"But I wouldn't want to ask Monsieur to give it up…" 

"I am giving it up myself!" Erik shifted Julian in his arms and freed his hand run it through his hair. "I am throwing it away. Take it. I care only about the safety of my son." 

"If you care so much about that, Monsieur Levoire, perhaps you had better teach him to behave himself better." Dufour let a little of his impatience and displeasure show through his pleasant façade. Erik closed his eyes, enjoying the momentary respite this brought, staring at the mercilessly blank backs of his eyelids, before facing his problems once again. 

"Fine," he said, waving a hand through the air distractedly. "I can see we are going nowhere. Thank you for your time and patience." It was all he could do not to bring his fist crashing down against the man's desk, splintering the wood as he had done to so many such flimsy tables in his time. It was all he could do not to choke the life out of the man for his pigheaded insistence. But instead, he shook his head clear, replaced his hand under Julian's legs to support them, and carried the boy upstairs. 

Once in the room, Julian burst into sobs. He curled up on the bed and buried his face in his arms. Erik seated himself on a little chair by the bed and glanced around their dismal room. It was bedroom and sitting room in one, with only one little side chamber for dressing and bathing. A little room where Erik spent hours daily trying to get Julian to put on his own clothes and brush his own hair, something the boy seemed determined not to do. Finally, the shrill crying wore down his frayed nerves. "Stop that noise," he barked, his silver voice turned harsh and cold. 

Julian whimpered and sat up, rubbing his eyes miserably and hiccupping in distress. "Just what were you thinking," Erik demanded, the cold terror that had gripped him slowly melting into inexpressible rage. His eyes took in the tumbled chair, the open window. "It had better not be that damned windchime again! I swear to God, Julian, I am sorry I ever made it!" 

"I just wanted to…it fell…" Julian practically whispered, trembling in fear. He looked around the room frantically and was met with a terrible sight. The windchime in question lay on the floor, shattered into hundreds of pieces, the clay shards winking in the bright, cold sunlight. The little pipes were broken at jagged angles and the little animals twisted beyond recognition. The head of a little deer gazed forlornly up at him, its tiny legs broken into several pieces, and its torso nowhere in sight. At this, Julian burst into tears anew. 

Erik, all his patience completely disintegrated, stood angrily, knocking over his seat in the process. "Julian, for God's sake, what is the matter with you?" He raked his hands through his hair, on the verge of pulling it all out. "I tell you not to do something, and the next day you do it! I teach you how to take care of something, and five minutes later you have forgotten! You cannot walk five yards without upsetting some stool or barrel or vase or what have you. I must fear to leave you be for a few minutes lest you wreak some new havoc in my absence, and even in my presence you are no better. It is only that, with me around, at least someone is there to compensate for your ceaseless stupidity!" 

Quite at his wits end, Erik seized up the fallen chair and hurled it at the wall. The legs cracked and splintered, and the whole thing struck the wooden floor with a loud thud. He strode across the room, and brought his heel mercilessly down on the pieces of the windchime, churning the clay into the floor. The deer's head bucked und crumbled to dust. Then he kicked at and scattered the tiny shards, sending them skittering across the wooden planks. Julian stifled his sobs only through fear. His large blue-gray eyes filled with enormous tears. 

Unable even to bear the sight of the offending child any longer, half for anger and half for shame, Erik flung himself out the large window and, grabbing the edge of the flat roof with both hands, heaved himself onto its balcony-like perimeter. The wide, flat space was ideal for sitting on, and it provided an unequaled view of the outskirts of Paris on the one side, and an idyllic country scene on the other. Both made for excellent subjects where painting was concerned. In fact, sometimes Erik managed to sell a painting of two, although he mostly lived off the little bit of money he made selling his architectural plans, no doubt to bumbling, uninspired fools who were mangling the seeds of his creativity and turning them into mundane living spaces. Even so, his talents in this field were so extraordinary, he always managed to find someone who was willing to pay for his ideas. Extraordinary, yes. That was an apt description for everything about him and his hapless son. Although Erik found that the word, when used to describe him, usually carried an unusually negative connotation. 

Erik had decided, after some time and with no little amount of urging on Nadir's part, to move out of the house on the lake. He had said, after all, that he wanted Julian to grow up normally, which simply could not be accomplished underground. He had pooled all his earnings and savings together to afford this small, unexceptionable room in an out of the way lodging house. Even had he wanted to acquire a better-paying, more respectable job—ha! Even had he been able to find someone to hire him—it would never have worked out, what with Julian needing constant attention and supervision. It was getting harder and harder to find nannies for him; the boy's reputation in the town had about the same effect on people as a rumor of plague. As it was, they scraped by, and Erik would not really have been so unhappy. It was rather novel to live in the sunlight again, and he would have gladly bourn the strange glances and rumors that followed him wherever he went, for Julian's sake. And yet, the boy did not seem to be improving at all for it. 

Several years had passed since his discussion with the daroga. And in those years, Erik had struggled endlessly to follow his friend's advice. He had encouraged Julian to try new things on his own, had sometimes refused him assistance in an effort to provoke the boy's will to learn, and even allowed him to suffer the consequences of his sometimes incomprehensible clumsiness and inattention, forcing him to understand the disastrousness of such things. And none of it had worked. 

Julian had finally learned to walk with much coaxing and many failed attempts and tears. And yet, whatever joy that event had brought Erik, it was quickly overshadowed by the fear of new ways for Julian to create mischief. No fragile object was safe within his grasp; tables and cabinets fell prey to his stumbling gait, and, when in his hands, all objects seemed suddenly covered with grease, so great was the ease with which they slipped from his grasp. 

Love, unbounded love, had tempered Erik's naturally fiery disposition. At first. But sleepless nights, restless with fear and concern, slowly took their toll. Days of constant alertness and trepidation wore him down. He had lost weight, his clothes hung off his frame more than usual, and the dark holes in which his eyes were set deepened, and darkened further. His eyes were bloodshot. He was haunted by constant migraines. But worse than all of this, far worse, was the voice that whispered in his head, ceaseless and unforgiving, 'What am I doing wrong?' 

What mothers would listen to his complaints and concerns berated Julian for his disobedience and laziness. Laughing, congenial fathers, turning on their barstools to face him, and then turning quickly away, recommended beating him into submission, an idea that shook Erik to his very core with awful memories of his own boyhood. The letters and occasional visits from Nadir proved only to be more harrowing. Nadir had a kind of infinite patience with Julian, which, while not always sympathetic, seemed not to question too deeply anything that he did. It was this quiet understanding and acceptance that had led Erik to confide in the Persian man in the first place, all those years ago in Tehran. But now it only infuriated him. Could Nadir not see that something was _wrong_? That something had to be done?

Julian, with six years behind him, could not solve the mysteries of a knife and fork. Occasionally Erik was forced to spoon-feed him, like an infant, for the child had, most unfortunately, more his father's temperament than his mother's, and frustration often led him to terrible fits of temper. He couldn't write or draw; he could not even hold a pen correctly. And Erik tried to understand. He used to comfort the child by ridiculing his own chaotic handwriting, which generally succeeded in lifting Julian's spirits. But in trying to find similarities between himself and his son, Erik only seemed to find an ever-increasing gap. And always the same questions. 

Erik sat, bent nearly double over, and sobbed. Why could he not raise Julian? What was he doing wrong? Why could he not seem to manage even the simplest of tasks, such as teaching the boy to feed himself? Was he doomed to forever be the worst father on the face of the earth? Pounding his fist into the stone, Erik ignored the jolt of pain that flew up his arm and into his shoulder. He pounded again and again until is hand was numb and bloodied, whereupon he threw himself down upon the hard surface and wept bitterly.

_AN: So what did you think? As usual, feel free to leave a completely honest review. This chapter was a big step for me, and I could easily have overlooked something. If you find something that you think should be revised, just tell me, and I'll look into it. I've been warned about consistency problems--and I totally agree with this. Is this better? Or are they still there? If they are, what are they specifically/how can I fix them? I've tried hard to fix grammatical errors, but I still have no beta reader and these things sometimes escape me._


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